“That red wine will be the death of him”

She sips her soda water
He gulps his Ê Grino Rosso red wine
She subconsciously stays sober to avoid that fragile firing line
Each and every Friday and Saturday is exactly the same as she sits nervously on tenterhooks Oh what a shame

“That red wine will be the death of him” she thinks to herself as she watches him sneakily run behind her back topping his glass up from the wooden shelf
Oh how she hates that sickly smell of sulphur breathing down her neck but as soon as his head hits the pillow he is popping and blowing his bloody bubbles ‘What the heck’

Rollon Sunday with no more stale stench of alcohol
She knows everybody drinks it and she is the oddball
Yet she gets allergies and the smell of sulpher makes her ill
as her coughing and spluttering makes her pop yet another antihistamine pill

Ah well she has her nightly routine
It’s just her way of coping if you know what I mean
As soon as his Lordship is zonked out she picks up her pillow and sneaks off to the other room into the spare bed
And eventually her blocked up nose will ease and she feels clearer in her head